the wednesday poem

"There is also in each of us the maverick, the darling stubborn one who won't listen, who insists, who chooses preference or the spirited guess over yardsticks or even history. I suspect this maverick is somewhat what the soul is, or at least that the soul lives close by." - Mary Oliver

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

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French Horn For a few days only, the plum tree outside the window shoulders perfection. No matter the plums will be small, eaten only by squ...
Wednesday, March 24, 2010

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Monsieur Pierre Est Mort My seventh grade French teacher, Mademoiselle Torrosian, kept a pet rock, Pierre, who looked like an average potato...
Wednesday, March 17, 2010

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Digging Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks int...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010

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Almost a Conversation I have not really, not yet, talked with otter about his life. He has so many teeth, he has trouble with vowels. Wheref...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010

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Often I Imagine the Earth Often I imagine the earth through the eyes of the atoms we’re made of— atoms, peculiar atoms everywhere— no me, no...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010

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Meeting At An Airport You asked me once, on our way back from the midmorning trip to the spring: "What do you hate, and who do you love...
Wednesday, February 17, 2010

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won't you celebrate with me won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both non...
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elizabeth salper
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